


Hide Your Fractures

by SirAlahn



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Mute!Corvo - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:17:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4310184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirAlahn/pseuds/SirAlahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles exploring pre- and post-storyline events, "missing scenes", and various errata from Dishonored. Primarily focused on Corvo and his interactions with other characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Suffocating Sky

Before his long imprisonment, Corvo had felt no particular way about small spaces. They'd simply been different -- less exits and entrances to watch for dangers, less spaces he couldn't see that could hide dangers for his Empress. That she had ultimately been assassinated at the top of Dunwall Tower was ironic, in a way. He could not watch all of their surroundings, and for attackers to make their way there had been unthinkable without the gifts the Outsider had provided. 

Further irony. Daud had chosen his location well. He and the Whalers had easy access and easy escape when the deed was done. 

When he'd first escaped from Coldridge, Corvo had been all adrenaline and weary desperation, moving as though in a dream or a nightmare. The reality of the open space around him had been fogged -- and since he'd made his escape through the sewers, the sheer suffocating openness of the sky had not pressed down upon him until he'd gotten in to Samuel's boat. 

How he'd held himself together long enough to get back to the Hound Pits, to meet everyone, to get the gear he would need, to get a bath and clothes, he would never know. Because by the time he made his way up to his attic room -- so much bigger than the cell that had been his home -- he had been a shaking, hyperventilating mess. 

How far the former Lord Protector had fallen.

He had ended up wedging himself between the bookcase and the bed, knees drawn up to his chest. The mattress was too soft, too much like luxury even with its age, for a body that had grown used to the hard and chilly stones of the aptly-named Coldridge Prison. Corvo knew the Loyalists had given him the biggest room as a kindness. After all, who wouldn't want so much space after having been captive for so long?

Corvo Attano, apparently. Which only reinforced his feelings that something was wrong with him. How could these people look at him and see hope, see him as the instrument upon which all of their plans hinged? I'm no assassin! he had wanted to shout at them, but the knowledge that they would not understand the frantic motions of his hands had kept them still. He was a guard and nothing more -- had been, he reminded himself miserably, and in the end not a good one. His negligence had cost the Empire its Empress. 

And now he felt like even more of a sham. Those people that had conspired for six months to get him out of prison expected things from him. Somehow, in some ways, that was worse than the torturer's chair. At least there, his wordlessness had been a boon. There were no secrets he could scream in a moment of weakness. And he would have let them kill him rather than sign the fabricated confession. But now he had to try to act. To do the things that they seemed to think only he could do to save Emily.

Sweet Emily. Thinking of her hurt, knowing that she was out there, somewhere, frightened and among enemies. Corvo would not -- could not -- imagine her dead. Because to do so would be to give up from the start, to admit that he had failed utterly. 

Yet thinking of her made his breathing slow. Thinking of her gave him a purpose, made the terrifying openness of the room fade away as he thought about what he had to do.

One step at a time. Just like he'd done to get out, to take advantage of this opportunity to escape. The Loyalists thought clearing his name would be the only proper motivation -- but compared to seeing Emily safe and whole and happy, what was one man's reputation? Even if it was his own. 

There were many things Corvo Attano would give up to keep her safe. 

So when the Outsider appeared that night in his dreams, he did not hesitate to give up his soul for the power that would help him retrieve her safely. Not that the otherworldly creature bothered asking him. Not many people bothered with his opinion, and even fewer took the time to learn the signs that would let him articulate himself. He could write, of course, but the signals were more efficient. Faster. They did not leave him feeling so much like a burden. He hated writing while others watched with manufactured patience. 

But maybe it was better he could not speak. There would still be no one he could accidentally spill his secrets to. No way for those depending on him to sense how afraid and broken he really was. In that way, Corvo wondered if his fearsome mask was more for his peace of mind or theirs.


	2. Flight

Running over the rooftops the first time had been exhilarating, terrifying. He'd exulted in the sickening drop of free-fall and the breathless lurch of blinking onto the next roof. Even startled himself into a silent laugh when he caught himself on his belly, scrambling on rain-slicked shingles so he didn't go careening down into the street. The fortuitous blare of an announcement speaker had muffled the sound of his clumsy landing. 

Corvo was not so reckless after that, but he still loved the rooftops. No one saw him there -- no one ever looked _up_ \-- and it was a place he could call his own. A place no one could deny him now. A place where he could fly, like the bird that someone in Serkonos had named him for so long ago. 

He knew he couldn't let himself lose sight of his task. But every jump he made was bringing him closer to the High Overseer and his black book of secrets that would reveal where Emily was hidden. Where they'd kept her, just as much a prisoner as he had been, for six months. 

And maybe it was a little irresponsible, a little reckless, for him to take joy in something after so much darkness and grief and pain. But it had felt like years since he had seen the stars. Even if the mist and smog blurred them that night into soft lights seen through grimy glass. 

No matter what anyone said, he was not going to apologize for being free. Besides, none of the Loyalists would see him this way, near dancing across the rooftops and chimneys and balconies and streetlamps. 

Sometimes, Corvo thought he could feel a twinge of amusement that was not his own. _You use my gifts more like a schoolboy than a Lord Protector._ \-- he could imagine the black-eyed Outsider saying it with a vividness that came close enough to reality it sobered him. 

Corvo would be lying, though, if he said he didn't enjoy those nighttime flights. But no one ever asked.


	3. Communicating in the Corners

He felt more at ease around Callista and Samuel than anyone else. Oh, the former Lord Protector knew and understood the complicated social and political cues of the elite. But the difference -- the thing that everyone but Jessamine and Emily mistook for something else -- was that he didn't _care_. No matter the title he had once held, Corvo was no noble. Nor did he enjoy pretending to be; no matter what he did, he would still always be an orphan from Serkonos, trained from as early as he could remember to handle a sword.

No one had expected Jessamine to actually _pick_ him to be her Lord Protector, least of all himself. 

Martin and Pendleton and Havelock just talked at him, explaining their plans like he was simple just because he couldn't speak. Corvo had to wonder if they thought he would cause too much chaos if they didn't. Oh, they said enough things about honor and hope and "The empire is depending on you, Corvo," but behind it all he could tell that they saw him as a tool. And when they didn't need him, a part of the scenery. Corvo supposed they could not help it. He had spent a long time being the silent watcher behind Jessamine's shoulder, always alert but never quite looked at directly by any of her petitioners. 

Callista and Samuel, though… they were different. They talked to him instead of _at_ him, and asked him questions rather than making assumptions. And they _listened_ when he answered, perceptive enough to pick up on his mood by the way he moved or the expressions he made. Even, after a few tentative days, to learn the hand signals he preferred. They were not as fluent as Jessamine or Emily, their words stilted and awkward from unfamiliarity, but their efforts coupled with their empathy allowed him whole conversations in ways he had thought lost to him forever. Blushing with her forwardness even as she stifled a laugh, Callista had even teased him that he was _loud_.

"You're very expressive," she'd explained, "when you're not trying to hide it." She didn't comment on the obvious -- _You never let your guard down around the Admiral and the others._ \-- but Corvo's quiet smile had gotten one from her in return. They both had their parts to play around the ringleaders of the Loyalist conspiracy. 

Samuel didn't mix with the representatives of the upper echelons, preferring to keep to himself and occasionally the staff. To avoid seeming presumptuous, Corvo suspected, but he had the tact not to ask. That, and the man was as uncomfortable around those noble by birth or fortune as Corvo was. And both smart enough not to let on about it. 

Callista had despaired of the former hound crate Samuel had made into his refuge, worrying quietly about the effect of the elements on his bones, of the ground on his back. "Outsider knows he's not getting any younger," she'd said one evening, her color high in frustration of the only times Corvo heard her swear. "He should have the good sense to take care of himself. We need him." But she didn't say it like Martin or Pendleton would have, and the rare glimpse of fire in her dark eyes reminded Corvo so much of the two women he loved that he'd told Samuel, when Callista offered blankets or pillows or food, he should take it. 

The old sailor's weathered face did not hold a blush well, but Corvo could tell by the pink on his ears. "Girl that young has no business worrying about a man like me," he'd grumbled. But he'd seemed more embarrassed than anything, and later that night when Corvo looked out his window, he saw Callista making her way to Samuel's shelter with linens and dinner. 

They talked for a long, long while, and Corvo moved away from the window to give them privacy.

\---

Samuel didn't say anything about it, of course. He was far too much a gentleman, no matter what he said himself. And though Corvo noticed that his shelter looked much more furnished, he wasn't cruel enough to tease his friend. Whatever happiness any of them could find in this time of secrets and assassins and plague, they deserved.

The quiet moments he had with the boatman were some of his favorites. Samuel didn't feel the need to fill the silences. Though he and Corvo had no trouble communicating, more often than not they were both content to sit in quiet companionship. Corvo would tend to his gear and Samuel would work on his boat, or watch the ships on the Wrenhaven -- or, most recently, whittle pieces of old wood until they took on pleasing shapes under his hands and knife. 

These moments never lasted long -- Corvo was always on the move, driven by his own purpose and the hope of so many that rested on his shoulders. But he prized those subdued interludes, and Samuel seemed to do the same.


	4. Judgment and a Moral Compass

Sometimes, Corvo's hands itched with the desire to make those responsible for Jessamine's death pay with their lives. They had robbed the Empire of a fair leader -- robbed Emily of her mother -- and robbed him of the only woman he'd ever loved. Not that Corvo could admit he'd been more than her Lord Protector. To do so would be improper, and he and Jessamine had gone to great pains to keep their involvement a secret. 

At times, with his sword clutched tightly in his hand, Corvo thought of how easy it would be to rob those men of what they had taken in return. Slitting their throats would be the work of a breath, and then he'd be gone again like a vengeful spirit. Like Death itself. His hands could spread pain along with justice. 

It would be simple to give up his humanity to put Emily on the throne. The Outsider had already taken his soul.

The way Emily watched him, though… He wondered what she saw, and each time he was tempted to take a life he granted mercy instead. A sleep dart, a Tyvian chokehold, an ironic fate for those key players rather than the end of a blade. Corvo did not want the young girl to begin her reign in bloodshed. Did not want her to see a monster when she looked at him -- or worse, saw a monster she wanted to be. And he did not one day want to look Callista or Samuel in the face and see fear, or distrust, or disappointment. 

What Martin and Pendleton and Havelock thought of him, he did not care.


	5. No Escape Even in Dreams

His sleep was not restful, and morning came too soon. Even when his dreams were not infiltrated by the Outsider, Corvo found that peace eluded him. At times he could not sleep, and paced the roofs or his room rather than stare at the ceiling. At others, he tossed and turned through nightmare after nightmare, waking soaked in sweat and breathing hard in either fear or adrenaline. The times when he could not remember his dreams were far better. More often than not, though, he wasn't that lucky. 

Corvo wished he had someone to ask about these things. But no one he knew had endured the same things -- and though he was glad of that, at times it left him feeling isolated. 

When he learned that Emily had nightmares too, he wished that he could take them all upon himself and spare her. It was only natural, of course, that a young girl's sleep would be troubled after what she'd seen. That didn't make it any easier to bear, and only reinforced his rage at what the usurpers had done. 

Some nights, she asked him to stay and he did -- sitting by her bedside until he was sure she was asleep. Only then would he wish Callista a good night and slip out to take on his darker purpose. It comforted him every time to hear Callista lock the door behind him. Even if such measures might not stop a man like him… there were not many men like him. 

The donning of his mask was an over-obvious metaphor, but a metaphor all the same. There existed no place for gentleness in his purpose-driven travels across Dunwall. That was something he left behind in the room with Callista and Emily, something he left behind in the boat with Samuel. All he could allow himself was mercy. It was mercy that spared guardsmen, maids, street thugs, even weepers. It was mercy that spared Campbell, the Pendleton twins, Lady Boyle.

Those in Dunwall that saw his mask only saw it as Death. And perhaps Piero had done that on purpose, intending it to make a specter of the man who went about his dark business in the middle of the night, in the sewers, on the roofs. The Outsider seemed to enjoy the irony. _The assassin who has killed no one,_ he teased Corvo once as the former Lord Protector plucked a rune from a purple-shrouded shrine. _You fascinate me, Corvo. One might think you were afraid to kill._

They both knew that wasn't true. The Outsider was merely teasing him -- tormenting him, maybe, with the reminders of what he _could_ do. He _could_ become the vengeful creature his enemies surely expected him to be, and cut a bloody swath through the people that got in the way of those targets. Sometimes, Corvo wanted to be just that. 

At others, he wanted to take Emily and disappear. Convince Callista and Samuel that she would be better for it and escape with them. Callista could remain her tutor, Samuel their transportation. They could start a new life elsewhere -- Serkonos, perhaps -- and be happy, this makeshift little family of his. Dunwall had taken so much of them already. Did it really deserve any more?

Somehow, Corvo could never quite bring himself to ask them.


End file.
